


Dawn Shadows

by icarus_chained



Series: Dak Territories [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Backstory, Character Death, Death, Demons, Destiny, Determination, Family, Fantasy, Friendship, Gen, Gods, High Fantasy, Mythopoeia, Original Mythology, Pantheons, Plague, Plans, Politics, Survival, Survivor Guilt, The Order, Thieves Guild, Unconventional Friendship, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world torn in the wars between gods and daemons, the two young survivors of a plague-shattered family take sides, make strange allies, and slowly begin to plan for the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shadows Behind

Death followed him. It had followed him all his life, since he was a child.

Which was an ominous thing to say, perhaps. An unhealthy notion to take into your head, Zen would say. Zen said a lot of things. Not much about ... about that time, though. Never that. Zen felt far too guilty, about that. Occasionally, Beren would feel bad for reminding him of it, for mention his grey shadow, reminding his cousin of the scythe that, inexplicably, had once spared them both, taking everything else that had mattered.

He hadn't known to at the start. A grey, silent child, pulled alone from the burnt-out embers of what had once been his village. Pulled from a sea of corpses. Not all killed by the disease itself. Some caught in the blaze set by over-zealous soldiers attempting to halt the march of the plague. Uselessly, for the plague was god-sent, but no-one much had known that. No-one much knew it now.

He'd been the sole survivor. Zen, his cousin, had been spared by his apprenticeship, down in the Kainordak and untouched by the epidemics. Beren ... he had been there. And he should not have survived. And he hadn't known not to attempt to explain the reasons why he _had_.

He shouldn't have told them about the red god, the thing that walked among them and sowed the fever in their veins. He shouldn't have tried to warn them, at the time, shouldn't have tried to explain to the soldiers afterwards what it was he had seen. He shouldn't have told of the grey god, the cold, clean touch of him, the exhausted smile, the strange conflict in stern, black eyes when Beren reached out to touch his hand and murmur cracked thanks. Nor too the bright lady, face lined and such pain in her eyes, who took him gently from the dark god's hands and set him back among the living, the fever purged from his body, the pain brushed from his heart.

He shouldn't have told Zen, in those months afterwards, that he sometimes saw the grey god still. Shouldn't have told his angry, desperate cousin, his brother that flinched so guiltily from the shadows of a death so narrowly avoided, about the dark eyes that followed him still. He hadn't understood, at the time, the fear it caused Zen, the pain.

It had been Shaiar himself who explained it to him, in the end. The God of Death who had, at last, stepped somewhat hesitantly from the shadows of a sunny day and sat down beside a confused but welcoming twelve year old boy.

{He fears me,} the Death God had told him, gently. {He fears that my presence means I will harm you}

Beren had thought about that. Not very clearly, but he had. He had turned it over in his head, vaguely confused by the thought, sitting calmly on his tree stump beside the god of death. Shaiar had let him, a silent presence at his side, watching him with dark eyes that were ... almost wary. Almost fearful. Beren hadn't really understood that, at the time.

"You won't, though," he'd said, with slow confidence. Not in judgement, not out hope or any thought of the future whatsoever. Out of memory. Out of knowledge.

He remembered. Even still, he remembered. She'd been so small. His sister, the littlest of them. For some strange reason, despite the fragility of her, the one who'd lasted longest, besides him. The one who'd stayed with him, for so long, for so many endless, searing hours, while they curled together in what was left of their home and watched the fires on the edges of town creep closer. Amara. Her hand tiny and pale and searing in his. Her breaths tiny, desperate pants that wanted to be sobs, maybe screams, but she hadn't the energy left. Hadn't the ability.

Beren had watched him take her. Had watched Shaiar reach down, at the end. Pull her ... pull her away, carry her up. Hold her briefly in his arms, before ... something. Something Beren hadn't seen, couldn't have understood even if he had. Shaiar had held her, for that brief moment before she was gone.

And the sobbing had stopped. Her pain had stopped. For that one tiny moment, while he lay there in the dirt with her slack, empty hand in his, Beren had watched the Death God hold her, and he had understood she was safe. That all of them were safe. He had seen her pain stop, and understood ... the nature of it. The nature of the hands that reached for him next. The nature behind black eyes that were so tired, and the smile that cracked in exhausted wonder when Beren took cool hands without fear.

"You don't hurt people," he said, quietly and simply, those months later with the Death God, the most feared god in all the worlds, by his side. "Why should Zen be afraid of you?"

Shaiar hadn't answered. Not for a long time. Sitting beside Beren, just out of reach, just beyond touch. Simply watching him. Somewhat ... bemused.

{Perhaps ...} the god said at last, oddly cautious, oddly reticent. {Perhaps he fears that I will take you from him, and he will have nothing left to love?} 

And later, Beren would realise that the explanation was offered ... not quite in good faith, that the god had chosen those words, that logic, perhaps more for his own benefit that for Beren's. Perhaps Shaiar had thought him too young, or too slow, to understand the revulsion and fear that followed Death wherever he walked. Or perhaps ... he had wanted to maintain some hope of welcome. Perhaps he had wanted not to risk, just yet, something he hadn't ever expected to have. But at the time, it had made as much sense to Beren as anything, and perhaps more than most. He did, after all, love his cousin. He did, after all, want to be there for as long as possible, to keep him safe.

"Then maybe ..." he'd offered, slowly and a little warily. He'd had _some_ sense, even then. If not much. "Maybe you could tell me? When you have to take me? And I could tell him that he doesn't have to worry until you say so?" 

Shaiar had stared at him, and Beren wondered later what the god had heard in that moment. How many sly and desperate dealings, how many bargains struck to keep him back as long as possible, to ward Death off for as long as they could. He wondered how many echoes Shaiar had heard in that so innocent question. How much suspicion he'd tried not to nurse, how much his heart had sank.

"Then," he'd continued, faltering a little in the face of the grey god's silence, suddenly somewhat desperate to explain, to halt the vague flinch he'd sensed in his companion. "Then you wouldn't have to worry about hiding when you visit. Because ... he wouldn't be afraid of you ..."

Shaiar looked at him, then. Fully, completely. Almost startled into touching, a cold hand raised in sudden confusion, stopping only at the last moment. {When I ... When I _visit_?} he'd asked, in a tone Beren had never been able to decipher, then or now. {When I visit?}

"Um." He'd faltered, uncertain now. Wondering if he'd misread his companion. Worried, foolishly enough perhaps, not that he was in danger, but that he'd offended. The gods, after all, might not have time for mortal men. But he'd thought that was what the shadowing meant. He'd thought ... There was tiredness in those dark eyes, and he'd thought, maybe hoped ... that the god had followed him because he made it less, somehow. The way he had followed Zen for so many weeks, clung to his cousin's presence where the memories seemed less powerful and the fears were held somewhat at bay. Shaiar had been there, he'd thought. Shaiar had seen what he'd seen. Why shouldn't the god want someone to hold onto too?

"Didn't you want to?" he'd asked, hesitantly, in a voice little louder than a gnat. Turning in his seat, looking up into the grey, stern face. Reaching very slowly, while the god stared at him, to touch the hovering hand, to rub small, questioning fingers over cool, grey flesh. Shaiar had shuddered. Had flinched, minutely, and caught with sudden desperation to his hand.

No-one touches Death. He hadn't known that, then. He had been dying when he'd first held those grey hands, and that had been the proper way of things. He hadn't registered, in that strange half-way place, that Melae, when she claimed him back, had taken care not to touch the Death God's hands. He hadn't known that the gods, Death's own kin, shied from his touch. That the revulsion of what he was, to an immortal being, was too powerful to overcome. And humans, mortals ... the touch of Death was death. So elemental a conclusion. Because when else did Death touch them, save at the moment of dying?

But Death had sent him back. Shaiar had held him, had held the pain at bay, and let him go. Shaiar had held him and not taken him, and Beren hadn't known what that meant. Hadn't realised that that was not what should have happened. All he'd known was that Shaiar had touched him, and the pain had gone away. He had not known to fear that touch. And so hadn't.

{I ...} Shaiar said. Exhaled, a shuddering breath, and curled his hand around Beren's grip. {I wanted to. Want to. Please.}

"Okay?" Beren had said, somewhat cautiously. "Then ... do you want me to tell Zen? So he knows not to worry any?"

{I ...} The Death God frowned, hesitated. {I should not allow it. I should not make such deals. But ...} 

A frown, then. A strange flare, almost defiance, as he looked down at the warm, pale hand in his, at the fingers laid across his palm for the first time in time without meaning. A frown, and his voice firmed. His hesitation fled. 

{Tell him,} Shaiar decided, determination settling in dark eyes as he looked at Beren. As he smiled with that tired wonder. {Yes. Tell him, then. All else ... We will deal with all else when it comes.} A slow, almost cruel curl of his lip. {If I am to be so feared, perhaps it should be of _use_ to me, after all ...}

And Beren had not understood that, hadn't understood for many years to come, but then ... It hadn't really mattered, then. Shaiar had smiled at him, had held his hand, and some of the weariness in dark eyes had seemed to fade, just a little. Like the memories were pulling back, just enough, just a touch. He hadn't known what the memories _were_ , what it was that lurked behind the Death God's eyes. It hadn't mattered to him. He knew what lurked behind his own, the ache of them, the relief at their faltering. It was enough to know he gave that to Shaiar, even a little, the way Zen gave to him.

Death followed him, after that. Death shadowed his footsteps, all his life, ever since he was a child.

And nothing else in all the world, save his cousin himself, had ever been so comforting.


	2. Clear Centre

Clear Center

Beren disappeared every so often. Zen tried not to let it worry him. Too much, at least. It wasn't the into-thin-air sort of disappearing that indicated his cousin had been taken by one side or another. He _hoped_ , anyway. There were some, on either side, who could touch anyone at will, and Zen would never know. Never be able to tell. But thus far, every time for the past four years, his cousin had always come back. Unharmed. Undisturbed. Not even realising Zen had been worried. 

If there was one thing about Beren that drove Zen insane, it was that. Did he have _no concept_ of how much Zen feared for him? Did he have no idea ...

Of course not. Beren, much as Zen loved him, had no real concept that anyone, any outside force, could infringe on his own agency. Not even Zen himself. Beren did not take orders. He took _suggestions_. Sometimes. When he felt like it. At all other times, he did whatever seemed best to him and him alone, and didn't seem to care overmuch what anyone else thought about it. It was ... infuriating, if Zen was honest. It was _incredibly_ frustrating.

And it also meant that Beren, whenever the fancy took him, would simply wander out of camp for a while, and come back anywhere from an hour to a few days later, unperturbed and mildly confused that Zen was consequently livid and somewhat wild-eyed.

It was enough to almost make Zen want to kill the kid _himself_. Almost.

This time, though, was going to be different. This time, Zen was going _after_ him. He was going to follow his cousin's trail, find him, and ... and something. Yell at him in privacy, at the very least. There was that advantage, admittedly. The thin walls of tents and listening ears discouraged making himself clear inside the camp. Some things about their past, about _Beren_ , were not for public consumption. Not for the others to know. They would not understand, these hardbitten men who had spent their lives making war on gods and the servants of gods. They would not understand his cousin. Not understand Zen's fears for him. Might, in fact, turn those fears against Beren. Even try, perhaps, to use Zen against him, to force Zen to choose between them and the cousin he loved.

That could not be allowed. Not now, not ever. Zen believed in their cause, certainly. He believed in the Daemons, and the injustice of the rule of gods. Oh, how he believed that. He had seen the remnants of his village, after all. The remains of his family, slain by the foul touch of a god, in vengeance for sins that hadn't even been theirs. The Orders may deny it all they liked. The gods themselves could come down from on high and deny their hand in the plagues. Zen knew the truth. The entire Guild knew the truth. He believed that.

But he also believed in his cousin. He believed that Beren had been spared for a reason. And he would not, would _never_ again, allow himself to fear Beren's death. He would never stand aside and allow his cousin to be harmed again.

So. Here he was. Wandering the Forest of Thieves, four hours out from camp, looking for his thrice-cursed 16 year old cousin and his damned, thoughtless, careless _wanderlust_ , not to mention complete and utter obliviousness to the fact that he seemed to positively _attract_ all the wrong sorts of attention and this _worried people_ ...

Zen stopped, for a second. Listening to himself pant slightly in temper, watching in mild curiosity as his hands clenched themselves into white fists. Ah. Hmm. It appeared he was rather more worried than he had thought. Or more angry. Perhaps both. He should probably ... That is. He should calm down, perhaps. Before finding Beren. It wouldn't do to ... Well. No. He'd never been able to scare Beren, not even at his most furious. Unlikely that he could do so unintentionally. But still. Better to be ... calm _er_ , at least. Yes.

Only Beren. Only his cousin could do this to him. With everyone else, from the most hardened and sneering Guilder to even the Daemons themselves, the total of two of them that he'd met, Zen had been able to hold his calm. He had been calm, and quiet, and capable, and had never once lost control. Not once. But Beren ...

He stopped. Breathed. Reached out, uncurled one pale hand to rest it against the closest tree. Just breathe. Just for a moment. Then, we can return to our search. With a clearer head, and something closer to a plan. Yes. Just a moment ...

{Guilder?} The low, heavy voice curled through the trees. Quiet, but pervasive.

Zen flinched back from the tree in raw shock, squeaking faintly. A shiver curled up his neck. That voice. He knew ... Oh, _no_. Please no.

"Where ..." His voice broke. He pulled it back with a snarl of temper. "Where is he? What ..." What happened. Who hurt him. Who _killed_ him. Who ...

The god appeared, silent and serene, at his side. A ghost out of the trees. No. _Death_ out of the trees. Shaiar was frowning at him, an oddly distempered look on those smooth, grey features. Then, taking in Zen's bleached-pale expression and drawing the correct conclusion, the god ... looked shamed. Briefly. But it was there.

{It is not what you fear,} Shaiar soothed belatedly. Holding out a hand in strange, stilted instinct, dropping it as fast, before Zen could even think to react. {He is not dead. Nor harmed. Forgive me. I ... forgot what would be thought.}

Zen blinked at him. Unresponsive. He couldn't muster focus for response, while a wave of ... something ... rushed through him. Something cold and shaking, that left him weakened in its wake. He felt his knees shake, try to crumble, and only that particular stubbornness he shared with his cousin stopped them.

"You," he muttered, trembling. " _You_."

Shaiar winced faintly. {As I said. My apologies.} 

And perhaps Zen should have found that strange, that a _god_ , a god of such power and fear, should apologise to _him_ , but he was too busy considering it _wholly necessary_ to be worried.

" _Do not_ ," he snarled, a flash-fire of ruined temper, before he pulled it back, smothered it in calm. "Forgive me. Forgive me, my Lord." More than a Guilder would give any god, but Shaiar was not any god. Shaiar was _Death_ , and that was more than gods. "You ... I fear for him, and _you_ ..."

{Yes,} the Death god murmured, face once more smooth and impassive. Repressive, Zen suddenly thought. Protective. {It was my mistake. I do not ... speak to many. For much that reason.}

Which, yes, made sense. And ... would be a lonely thing, Zen thought vaguely, somewhere in the back of his head beneath the rush of fear and anger that were still his immediate focus. Those, and a far more immediate, far more pressing concern.

"Where is he?" he asked again. Less accusing this time, calmer. His own smooth, impassive face, save for the faint tremble still in his voice. "Why are you ... Of all people, why do _you_ come to me?"

Shaiar grimaced. Faintly, but still. He grimaced, and looked vaguely discomfitted. 

{Your cousin is ... meeting someone,} he said eventually. Mouth twisting a little. {I have been watching them. To ... be sure of the other's intent.}

Zen's eyebrows shot up at that, a frown slipping across his features. There were _far_ too many worrying aspects to that. Far, far too many. From Beren meeting someone whose intent worried the God of Death, to what Beren was meeting them _for_ , to the fact that said God of Death had apparently nominated himself as Beren's _chaperone_ (there were times when Zen felt vaguely hysterical, that only around Beren did he have cause to _think such things_ , that one day it might be his duty to explain to other people that Beren was the kind of man for whom such things _happened_ ). But. But. First things first.

"Who?" he asked, brusque and clipped. "And if it worries you so much, _why did you leave him to warn me_?"

Shaiar blinked at him for a second. Wondering, perhaps, why Zen did not question the truth of his tale, wondering why Zen did not doubt that Shaiar intended well for Beren. Then ... then the Death God _smirked_.

{They are only two clearings away,} he said, reprovingly. {My awareness extends at least that far. And I thought, perhaps, it would be best for all concerned if you did not ... walk in on them unwarned?}

Zen paused. A number of ... _certain concerns_ running rapidly through his mind, and the vague, desperate mental plea of _Beren, why do you do this to me?_ Really. Why?

"And why would that be?" he asked, cautiously, and tried not to sound too much like he was asking a _Death God_ if his sixteen year old cousin was having an intimate interlude two clearings over. Because that ... Zen had seen and done a lot in his twenty years, but there were some things one simply should not be asked to do.

Shaiar's expression was so carefully still that Zen knew, he just _knew_ , that the god was laughing internally. As if he found the situation hilarious, as if he thought there was something inherently _funny_ about any of this. Which ... which there quite probably was, but until the nerves and the worries subsided, Zen was _not_ going to be admitting that.

Then, though. Then Shaiar sobered, his face relaxing from impassivity into a thoughtful frown. Into some vague concern that had Zen's muscles tightening one after the other.

{Because,} Shaiar said, very softly. {Because you are Guild. Because those men behind you, those men who shelter the pair of you, are also Guild. Because I thought, in light of that, that I should warn you, so you will do nothing rash.}

Zen held still. Held very still, for a careful breath, for a careful count of two. So he could be calm when he asked. So he could be clear. "And why would I do anything rash?" he asked, softly, but he already knew. Of course he knew. _Beren_.

{His companion is a god,} Shaiar answered baldly. Knowingly, and unconcerned. Watching Zen carefully, with black eyes that challenged impassively.

Zen breathed. Again. Felt the tiny quivers running through him. The urge to run to the clearing, the urge to find his cousin, strangle him, save him. He felt that need run through him. And he ignored it. For the moment.

"What god?" he asked, clipped and cold. Desperate, but not showing it. Never showing it. "What do they want?"

Shaiar looked at him, long and measuring. Black eyes implacable, stern, unmovable. Judging Zen's intent, as still and untouchable as anything in the world. Zen held equally still under that gaze. Held still as the god weighed him. Chin tilted, defiant, desperate, determined. Beren, I am going to _murder_ you. Myself. Just wait. Just stay alive long enough to let me. Just _wait_.

{They ... want company,} Shaiar said at last, and Zen blinked at him, nonplussed. {They want ... There are not many, among mortals or spirits, who listen as openly as your cousin does. Not many who will sit, and not ask, and let you be near them. It is ... attractive.}

Zen stared at him. For once, he could think of nothing to say. The God of Death did not squirm under a mortal's gaze. But he gave a remarkable impression of _wanting to_.

{Raidan is ... My nephew is confused, of late. Fearful, angry,} the god explained, uneasily. {His father has ... Aruk has been excitable lately. Things are moving. The God of War has been moving against them. He is ... not easy to be around. And his son ...}

Zen blinked. And then blinked some more, reaching up to rub vaguely at his temples. "Are you ...?" he started, and then stopped. Tried to think how to phrase this. Failed. "Are you telling me that my _sixteen year old cousin_ is ... what? Offering a godling comfort on falling out with his father?"

Shaiar's expression darkened. And his mien had not been unthreatening to start with.

{I do not speak with my brother,} he rumbled, low and deadly. {I speak with very few of my erstwhile family. But tell me, Guilder. Knowing the temper and pride of the God of War. Having seen it play out in the mortal world. How do _you_ imagine such a disappointing son, patron of _rain_ , should deal with said temper? And, perhaps more to the point, how do you imagine Aruk should respond to such a challenge?}

Zen let himself flinch, a little. Put like that, perhaps he could imagine. He just didn't really _want_ to. He was Guild. He _believed_ in the Guild. He didn't want to imagine the gods he hated as if they were _people_. Shaiar was enough of an exception, and that only because of Beren. Only because his cousin ...

Because his cousin had never hated. Never feared. That most frustrating of all things about Beren. Even though he had _been there_. Even though Beren had been the one pulled from charred remains of their plague-torn village, even though Beren had seen _first hand_ the predations of gods, and almost died for them. Beren never hated, and never feared, and never once thought he should flinch from the grey god that shadowed him, and never once thought he should declare war on the bright gods that demanded innocents suffer for some else's defiance. Beren, who had followed Zen into the Guild out of no sense of hatred, but ... but a desire, Zen knew, he _knew_ , simply to protect Zen himself. Simply to guard his family, the one person who remained of it, and keep him safe.

And Zen ... Zen would repay that. Zen wanted nothing, _nothing_ more than to repay that. To keep Beren safe in his turn. The only part of Zen's family that had been spared, the only thing he had left. He _had_ to keep him safe. Had to.

Even if that meant consorting with gods? Shaiar was excusable, maybe. None gainsayed Death. But another? Even if it meant consorting with another? Even if it meant standing in the forest, only four hours from a group of men who _trusted him_ , from a Daemon woman he thought might have earned his loyalty, from a group who would kill him and his cousin where they stood if they could see who he was talking to _right now_? Even if it meant following Beren, as Beren had followed him, into a war that ... That might not be so clear-cut as Zen, as all of them, desperately wanted it to be?

He stood, under the dark, impassive eyes of the God of Death. He stood, and he thought, and he breathed. Calmed himself. Cleared himself. His gift, that. Always, his gift. That bright, sparking thing that had first attracted the attention of his master, a thief of some skill. The gift that had led him to the apprenticeship in the Kainordak that had, in the end, spared his life. This calm. This cold, clean center, from which he might view the world, from which he might _think_ , and see, and draw clean lines of movement from it. This center, from which he faced the truth, divorced of emotion, and acted upon it.

Would he keep Beren safe, if it meant challenging the Guild itself, the Daemons, the Gods? Would he stand by his cousin, if it meant putting aside even those causes he believed it? Would he stand by Beren, even in the face of Death?

Yes. Yes. There was no other answer. There _could not be_ another answer.

However. That did not mean ... 

He frowned. Ignored how Shaiar's gaze turned speculative, ignored how the Death God's watching turned interested, and perhaps cautiously hopeful. He frowned and focused inward. Thoughtful. Confused.

Beren had been spared for a reason. He had _known_ that. Touched once, twice, and thrice. Zen knew what that meant. There were those who didn't, but Zen was not among them. He had looked and learned, everything that might keep his cousin safe, everything that might put him at risk. He knew what it meant, to stand beneath the hands of the Sisters. And Beren ... Beren had _always_ been this way. Always been as he was now, at least the basics of it. Always been open, and unbiased, and _immovable_ , once he had decided. There had to be a reason Beren, of all people, was so chosen.

And if there was a reason, and it was higher than gods and daemons, _unbiased_ to gods and daemons ...

Zen believed in the Daemon cause. He believed in the Guild. He believed that the gods were long, _long_ due a comeuppance, long due something to shake them from their high, oblivious perches and show them _what they had done_. Show them why it mattered. Zen believed that, with every vehement breath within him.

But he believed in Beren more. And Beren, though he yet treated with gods, had _come with him_. Beren had joined the Guild alongside him, and personally motivated though it had been, Beren did not betray his promises. If Beren had joined the Guild, then Beren would honour its purpose. At least as he saw it. At least as he believed best. Zen might not agree with him. Might not know where the path Beren was following would lead.

But he trusted his cousin. He trusted him. And perhaps, if the Sisters had chosen him ... Perhaps there were other, greater powers, who trusted Beren too.

Zen took a breath. Long and slow, holding it, letting it gather the confusion, the fear and the worry within him. He held it. And then he let it out, letting the calm settle over him, letting the stillness take him. Letting in the cold center, from which he might draw bright lines of movement.

Beren treated with gods. Very well. Beren had given oath to the Guild. Very well. Zen's first duty was to Beren. Very well. His second, though, was to his oath, and his patron, and his cause. Very _well_. Beren knew this. Beren supported him in this. Beren _would not betray him_. Those gods he had met, those gods _Zen_ had met, were ... Not evil. Not as he had believed so vehemently, not as he had needed them to be. Not that. Very well. Very ... very well.

So, then. His actions, for now at least, were clear.

He must trust Beren not to betray them. He must keep the pair of them safe. To do that, he must put them in a place untouchable by the Guild, so that he would have the power to assure them of his cousin's fealty. He must serve his Guild, to the best of his ability, must keep _them_ safe, too. He must discover the lives of gods, and daemons, the better to judge who among them was worth listening to. He must treat them as people, and judge their actions accordingly.

He must, he thought, take over the Guild. He must insinuate himself among the Daemons. Gods, he could leave to Beren. None among them would have him anyway, now. Gods, he would leave to his cousin's discretion. But the daemons, like the Guild, must be his. They must have both, if they were to survive this.

That was ... Surprisingly, perhaps, that was doable. Not immediately. Not right now. But the Lady Shanra, Daemon of Shadows, had treated well with him, that last meeting. He had been trained as a thief, trained in the more secret arts she espoused. She might favour him, should he prove himself to her. And, from her, from a patron, he might ... do much more. Climb much farther. Those men behind him. Hardened, embittered. Desperate enemies of the Orders, but much less organised. Much less supported. Less rich, less supplied, less well commanded. That could change. He could _make_ that change.

Beren would do as he pleased. Zen was, slowly and somewhat bitterly, coming to realise that. Beren would sneak from camp as he pleased, to treat with gods in the forest. But ... If Beren knew he did not _have_ to sneak? Not from Zen, at least? If he knew that his cousin understood, and would support him, protect him ...

Zen blinked. Shook himself from that inner space, breathed casually once again. Looked up, still blinking the shadows of thought from his eyes, and met the calm, black stare of Shaiar, the God of Death. Who watched him, cautious and impassive and patient as the turn of aeons, even ... minutes later? How much time ...?

But no matter. No matter, when the action was now clear. When the temper had seeped, and determination replaced it. It didn't matter anymore what his reasons had been for coming here. Only his reasons for _continuing_.

"Where is my cousin?" he asked, steady and impassive as the God himself. "Which direction?"

Shaiar studied him thoughtfully. As if considering refusing him, perhaps. Mayhap the sudden calm worried him. But no. Zen looked into those dark eyes and saw not. Shaiar was simply weighing him. The extent of his determination. And then ...

{There,} the Death God said quietly, pointing southwards. {Two clearings, as I said. They are sitting, still. Raidan has ... calmed.} A small warning there, implicit. Do not disquiet him. Do not bring my nephew fear. And that ... Suddenly, briefly, in a bubble of vague humour, Zen was curious.

"You like him?" he asked, softly, curiously. "This nephew? I thought you did not speak with other gods."

Shaiar smiled at him. Sort of. A faint curve of his lips, a crinkling about his eyes, impossibly tired, impossibly weary. {I do not,} he said, softly. {But that is their choice more than mine. My nephew fears me, much as any other. Were I to appear before him, he would flinch from me as surely as you did. I do not speak with him. But I have watched him. I have watched my brother, and my brother's wife, and all the gods. I have ... seen.}

And there were worlds in that. Aeons, in those three words, memories, pains, crawling behind the Death God's eyes. An endless weariness, an endless emptiness, within a soft regard. Zen was struck, then, so suddenly, with the knowledge that _this_ was what Beren must have seen. This was what his cousin, still then a child, had looked into a dark god's eyes, and seen, and moved to touch. Moved to alleviate. This ... this was why. This was why Beren did not fear. Did not hate.

"He doesn't flinch from you," he said, barely more than a whisper, looking at the god with new eyes. "Beren. He doesn't fear you. He fears _for_ you, doesn't he? He would move to defend you."

Shaiar smiled, then. Truly, this time, though still wry, still rueful. {As I said,} he murmured quietly. {There are few like your cousin, Guilder. None in all the world. At least ... none I had the chance to save. To serve.}

And Zen had to laugh a little at that. Not mockingly. Not cruel. Just ... rueful, and disbelieving, and _Beren, Beren, how do you do this to us?_ How did his cousin do this?

"Serve," he repeated. Not a blow. Still not a blow. "Does he know? Does he _know_ a god, the _God of Death_ , would serve him? Does my cousin know that?"

Shaiar smiled serenely. {Does he know you would?} he asked, as mildly. {Does he know the extent of what you would do for him? Does he know that you would trust him over causes? Over daemons and gods? Does he know you would act for him regardless?}

Zen took the blow. Accepted it, and smiled a return. Rueful, that he should share this with a god, with _Shaiar_ , in mutual self-amusement. "Not yet," he acknowledged, gently. "Not yet. But ... very shortly, he will. He and his godling." A small laugh. "Though, please. Allow me at least the pleasure of startling them. Allow me at least that measure of vengeance, for what he puts us through?"

And Shaiar grinned, a more deadly, more mischievous expression than might be expected of the dour Death God, and bowed Zen passage. Offered him access unrestricted, and a small measure of vengeance for them both.

Beren, Beren, Beren, Zen thought. Cousin, you have not the first clue what you have unleashed, have you?

But no matter. Very shortly, you _will_. 

And I, cousin dearest, shall much enjoy the revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically this is the backstory for one of my larger original 'verses. Um. It's the bit that stood best on its own? *grins sheepishly*


End file.
